Sherlock Holmes and a Case of Angles
by naturefreak0
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and to John the world has ended. It's been 18 months and John is still not over that fall that broke his heart. He tries not to show it to everyone, even himself, that when Sherlock died a part of him died too. Finally, when John thinks he has a handle on his sanity, dead people start showing up on his doorstep... will he handle reality or will it be too much?
1. Chapter 1

John took a single step off of the curb when a bike clipped him and he fell to the ground; his head beginning to buzz. Getting up shakily and stumbling as if he was drunk all the way to where a great circle of people surrounded Sherlock. As John pushed his way through the crowd, the buzzing in his head intensified- almost as if someone had put a running motor inside his head and let it bounce around.

Blood. Blood was everywhere. On the concrete, on John's hand's... on Sherlock's face. John felt his heart leap into overdrive and he grasped Sherlock's wrist searching, needing, to find a pulse where there wasn't one. Then the good doctor looked into the bright blue eyes of his best friend, partner in crime, and consulting detective but saw no light; and in that moment he knew. John Watson knew the great Sherlock Holmes was dead.

A woman with dark hair and eyes to match was tugging John by the sleeve of his jumper through the corridors of the hospital, searching for a bed that was unoccupied. This man was in a severe state of shock and needed medical attention.

"Seventy feet." John muttered.  
"What's that?" The other doctor responded.  
"Seventy feet." John said a little louder.  
"What's seventy feet?" She said, stopping in her tracks, grasping onto the doctor's shoulders.  
"The fall. Th-the fall was seventy feet."  
"Oh, how d'you figure?"  
"Seven times ten is seventy. Seven foot ceilings, ten floors. Seventy feet." John backed away from the female doctor. "I need to go. P-please. I'm a doctor. I know how to take care of myself."  
"Are you certain?" The woman said, her tone riddled with concern.  
"Yes. Thanks for your concern." John Watson nodded his head and turned back down the corridor that he and the other doctor had rounded.  
As soon as he was out of sight John picked up his pace to a run, quickly finding one of the doors that was on each level which lead to the stairwell.  
Sprinting up the five flights that separated him from the rooftop John burst out of the door and into the open air that was gray and stormy.

John wasn't expecting to find much. Maybe Sherlock's phone? Maybe Jim was still there? Maybe if he was still there John would be able to squeeze whatever life was still in him.  
But, as destiny would have it, John got much more than he expected.

A pool of blood,  
Sherlock's broken smartphone,  
and a note, written in swoopy handwriting, that was addressed to him.

The pool of blood, was later found that that it belonged to Richard Brook; or rather James Moriarty. It was released to the public (by an all too excited Sally Donovan, and a devastated Greg Lestrade) that if Sherlock had survived, that he would have been charged with his murder; though they still hadn't found Jim's body.

Then it took John all of six weeks to find the right smartphone repairman to fix the terribly cracked screen. But with the small fortune that was sent to John after Sherlock's fall, it was John's first and only purchase with the money.

And The note,

2 Jawn Haymish Watson,  
So, Johnny-boy, if the principle is that 2 can keep a secret if 1 of them is dead... What's our dirty little secret, and which one of us (Sherly or me) is really dead?  
Let that mill around in your Boring head for a while.  
Be Seeing you, Tata!  
Jim xoxo

~Eighteen Months Later~

Doctor John Watson sat bolt upright in his bed, with the back of his palm he wiped the sweat from his brow, taking deep breaths through his nose to slow his racing heart. It was nightmares of the fall again. Always the fall.

John pulled the electric alarm clock from his bedside table; the red numbers displayed the time of 1:59 AM. Setting the clock back down John slipped out of bed. He looked around at his surroundings as he walked over to his bedroom door; the Doctor's room was in a state of disarray. Maps, books, and magazines strewn over the floor and bedside tables. Manila files full of all the information John could get on Richard Brook, James Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes. John turned away from the mess putting his head on the cool wood- pushing back the tears that tried to spill over. It had been nearly six months since he had moved out of 221B and almost a year and a half since he fell, but it still hurt to even think his name.

Twisting the door handle John suppressed his feelings. Crying wasn't an option, it was a weakness, and there was nothing John hated more in this world than feeling weak.

Waiting for him as he opened the bedroom door was a strawberry-blonde Golden Retriever- wagging his tail at the sight of his master. John smiled a little as he patted him on the head, Gladstone was a good dog. John could always rely on him.

Walking away from Gladstone, who laid down at the base of the front door, John made his way down the little hallway to the small bathroom. But before walking in John begrudgingly looked at the shelf mounted next to a wall outlet, where Sherlock's cell phone lay; forever attached to the charging cord. John kept it around to remind himself about his past friend, though it was painful.

As John turned into the bathroom, his bare feet hit the cold tile and it shocked his body into into awareness. Turning on the overhead light, he blinked several times- the light was harsh and offensive to his half-asleep eyes.  
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. When John looked at himself in the mirror he tried to smile, but his eyes looked dead. Eyes really were the windows to the soul, for that was how John felt inside. Dead. Dead ever since the fall.  
John flinched, this was another forbidden subject. Think about Richard Brook or Moriarty as much as necessary, but avoid thinking about him and his demise.

John walked out of the bathroom and wandered into his drastically underused kitchen and flicked the coffee pot on, and John heard the familiar clink of Gladstone's identification tags and click of his nails against the white marble floor on his way to where John stood by his dog bowl. Gladstone pawed at the tin bowl and whimpered. John rolled his eyes and smiled a little. He's always peckish, this dog. John thought scooping out dog kibble from one of the bottom cabinets and into the dog's food bowl.  
As the coffee dripped away John stared mindlessly at Gladstone's swishing tail and elated demeanor. He wondered how one scoop of kibble could make a dog so happy.

When the carafe was full, John pulled it out from under the drip and dumped it into his mug. Gulping the hot liquid down until the cup was empty. His throat was singed, but he didn't care, and instead of being suddenly awake, John felt unbelievably tired.

So, making his way back to his room, John invited Gladstone intand collapsed on his cold, empty, king sized, bed.

Sherlock Holmes' cell phone sat on the shelf near the front door and the entire flat was silent, except for the light snoring of the doctor.  
As the darkened hours of the early morning passed; cold grey light streamed in through the eastern windows, and John stirred in his sleep, flashes of Sherlock filled his mind;

"John? John!"

The doctor had a smirk on his face as he walked away from Sherlock. If he was going to forgive him, he was really going to have to earn it.  
John heard the crunch of gravel as Sherlock chased after him.

"John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!" John rolled his eyes  
"Yes, alright. Don't have to overdo it." The Doctor said half-heartedly.  
"You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!" Sherlock seized the doctor's shoulders and beamed at him.

Oh, Sherlock, you flatterer. John thought to himself.

"Take my hand, John."  
"Oh, now people are definitely going to talk." John said, though internally not minding one bit, that he was clinging to Sherlock's hand and evading the police.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone's screen illuminated and it did something that it hasn't done for more than two years; it moaned.

**Author's Note-**

**In the description when I say "when dead people start showing up on John's doorstep" I mean to say _supposedly _dead people (ie: Sherlock) but there were no character's left :/ sorry if that caused any confusion!**


	2. Chapter 2

Out of the Ground

Doctor John Watson's eyes snapped open and he rolled out of bed. Nearly tripping over Gladstone in his haste, John took two long strides out of the bedroom to where his phone was. The screen was still illuminated and displayed was the notification of a text from a number unknown to him.

With shaky hands, he lifted the phone and unlocked the screen, it opened up the messaging application and he held his breath as waiting for the message to come up.

John knew it was Sherlock who lived. He just knew it.

When the text message finally popped up John's heart sank all the way down into his stomach. It wasn't Sherlock. It was Irene Adler.

Good mrning dear. I havent heard from you in almost 3 years! I miss u.  
-IA  
Received: 5:42

John shakes his head, he would rather not talk to Irene. Typing a quick reply he sets the phone back on the table.

Not Sherlock. Sorry.  
Sending...  
Sent: 5:43

There came an immediate reply.

Who is this then?  
-IA  
Received: 5:43

John debated silently with himself if he should his name, but deciding that if she was anywhere close she probably already knew.

John Watson.  
Sending...  
Sent: 5:45

Another immediate reply.

Oh, Johnny! Wheres Sherlock? Did u 2 finally get 2gether? That would be so ADORABLE!  
-IA  
Received: 5:46

A twang of resentment ran through John. Irene certainly was a character, but not one that he particularly liked. John bit the inside of his cheek as he replied.

Sherlock's dead, Irene.  
Sending...  
Sent: 5:47

WHAT.  
-IA  
Received: 5:47

Out of sight out of mind, John thought setting the phone back down on the table, placing a magazine over it and turning away. Suddenly, three texts arrived in rapid succession.

Your lying 2 me.  
-IA  
Received: 5:49

U must be.  
-IA  
Received: 5:49

If ur lying 2 me John tell me now. If this is some sort of joke it isnt funny!  
-IA  
Received: 5:49

The smartphone felt heavy in John's hands as he read the texts. It didn't seem right to him, the way he told her, but it wasn't as if it was broken easily to John either; he was the one who saw him fall...

Minutes past as he waited for another reply; John knew that there would be one.

The phone moaned twice, and John cracked a single dry sob.

John... U saw him... U saw him fall... And no way he was a fraud. I knew Jim, I worked for him. Sherlock didnt just employ me. I was real. I believe in Sherlock.  
Received: 5:55

-IA  
Received 5:55

John was in the middle of typing his response when the phone moaned again.

Where do u live John? Not at 221B... I was just there...  
-IA  
Received: 5:56

No, I moved a little under a year ago.  
Sending...  
Sent: 5:57

Where. Tell me or Ill just have to find u myself.  
-IA  
Received: 5:57

John sighed out of exasperation.

John quickly tapped in the address and sent off the text, before he could lose his nerve. Not expecting a reply, John turned back into his room and resolved to get dressed.

John pulled off his cotton t-shirt and threw it in the general direction of the hamper but walked over to it and placed it carefully in the basket stepping on an article from a paper dated exactly a year and a half ago with a title in large bold letters; Supposed Genius Commits Suicide.

Walking over to his dresser John bent over to retrieve a clean shirt from one of the bottom drawers. John's dog tags hung loose around his neck and clinked together as he slid the black and white jumper over the top of his head.  
Eyeing himself in the mirror dubiously, John slid off his plaid pajama bottoms and replaced them with a pair of blue jeans.  
As John laced up his brown combat boots Gladstone bounded in and started shredding the article about the fall. John didn't pay any note as he debated what his day would be like. He wasn't expected at St. Bart's, and he had an appointment with his therapist at one o'clock. He wasn't exactly what you would call "ecstatic" to be going , but it was by Mrs. Hudson's request that he went back. So John was going to do it.

John was just turning the kettle on when a loud buzzing went through the flat.  
"John, John! Open up. It's raining!" Irene Adler commanded through the intercom.  
He slinked around the corner and into the little hallway that lead to the door and the intercom system. Tapping the button John told Irene to come up to the flat and to go ahead and walk in.

Leaning on the wall nearest the entryway shelf he felt himself heave a sigh as the front door swung open and a very disheveled- and damp- looking Irene Adler stormed in.

Spotting where John was she flung herself into him, encircled her arms around his waist, and sobbed into John's shoulder. Wrapping his own arms around her, and stroking her hair, John knew instantly that what troubled her now was what had been buzzing around in John's head for eighteen months now.

"John-" Irene sniveled "-he's really gone... Isn't he." She turned her head to the side and looked at the Doctor sadly with her glossy pale blue eyes.  
A thought clicked in John's head. "Wait." He said pushing Irene's shoulders back.  
"What-" her bottom lip quivered.  
"Aren't you supposed to be dead? What're you doing all- living." John said brilliantly.  
"Oh. That." She dried under eyes with the sides of her index fingers. "S-S-Sh... He-" she said meaningfully "- h...he helped me escape, naturally." Irene shrugged her thin shoulders.

John squinted his eyes, he was at a loss for words; It wasn't everyday that a dead person came back to the living. Then John heard the familiar snap-hiss of his electric kettle turning off.  
"D'you want a cup of tea?" John asked moving towards the kitchen.  
Irene just nodded, shrugging off her black leather jacket.

After ushering Irene down to the table and giving her a steaming cup of earl gray tea, questions started to fill John's head. Why did Sherlock help Irene? How did Sherlock help Irene? How did Sherlock even know to help Irene?  
That's when John started to feel weepy and vulnerable again, drawing a shaky breath John felt the prick of tears against his eyes.  
John had just thought his name three times in rapid succession, triggering the images of the fall; which still burned in John's mind as if they were made just yesterday, instead of a year and a half ago.

"John... Are you alright?" Irene Adler shook the doctor's shoulder.  
"Yeah... I will be okay." John straightened up in his chair. "What brings you here, Irene?"  
"I was going to check up on Sher-" John flinched, Irene corrected her wording. "-Him... It's been a long time since we have talked."  
"Ah, well..." John trailed off.

John Watson and Irene Adler sat in silence for what seemed like hours; but actually was only fifteen minutes. The silence was interrupted by a growling Gladstone, walking briskly around Irene's chair and to sit between John's legs. John only had ever known him to growl when in company of strangers that he distrusted. It seemed like this was a perfect time for him to be growling, for if there was any stranger John would think Gladstone to distrust it would be Irene.

"Sounds like your pup doesn't like me." Irene said with a slight curl of her pale lips.  
"He's a bit antisocial. I should really get him out more often." John said thoughtfully.  
"Humph." Irene put her teacup to her lips and sipped her tea; She never did take a liking to dogs. They always smelled bad and bit people, Irene favored cats much more.

John bit the inside of his cheek nervously, he didn't exactly know understand why Irene was here. She had said that she was here to check on... But John still didn't get why she was her despite the lack of... John sighed. This was impossible. How was he to finish a train of thought if almost every single one involved...

John jumped a little at the sound of his own phone ringing from the bedroom. Excusing himself from Irene and weaving through the kitchen- hitting his hip on the corner of the counter and cursing under his breath- John made it to his room just in time to hear the phone stop ringing.  
Flinging himself onto the bed John grabbed his phone and hit the green redial button.  
"Marie Hudson speaking!" A cheery old woman's voice said into the phone.  
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." John said warmly.  
"How're you today John? Still going to your appointment?"  
"I'm... alright. Still have that appointment, yes."  
"Good thing too. Nothing on you John, but you have been a little obsessive over the whole thing. It's time to move on."  
John frowned a little and stared at the mess his bedroom was. "I have moved on."  
"Oh, John. No need to lie, I understand. All you need is someone to talk to."  
"I suppose."  
"Well, you don't need a daft old woman telling you what to do. Ring me back and let me know how it all goes, John."  
"I will, thanks Mrs. Hudson."  
"For heaven's sake; it's alright to call me Marie, you know." Mrs. Hudson laughed.  
"Oh, I know Mrs. Hudson." John laughed a little as he said his goodbyes to his old landlady, but just before he hung up the phone Mrs. Hudson's voice called John back through the receiver.  
"Yes?" John questioned.  
"I really hate to ask such a question, but, John d'you think that maybe you could move back into 221B?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a rush.  
"I really don't know Mrs-"  
"Because I recently had a new person opt to move in- funny name he had, come to think of it, was like the name the little crab had in that Disney cartoon with the fish people in it.- Anyway, I had to box up all of Sherlock's old things- well whatever the International Police didn't take- and it made me think of how happy you two were when you were here and how much I miss having company that doesn't tell me to shove off whenever I come round for a chat."  
John's heart broke a little for Mrs. Hudson, he hadn't thought what it would be like for her through all this, but then his brain perked at the phrase 'International Police.'

"I'm so sorry Mrs. Hudson... I'll have to think about it. But what was about InterPol?"  
Mrs. Hudson sniffed a little. "Well, I didn't want to tell you... But now I guess the cat's out of the bag!" Mrs. Marie Hudson paused. "You see... about a week ago, before the man came to ask about 221B, two Detective Inspectors- one called Dimmock and the other was the Lestrade one that Sherlock was always running around with, anyway-" John jumped off of his bed and made his way back into the kitchen. John picked up his mug of coffee and looked over to the circular dining table to where he left Irene last.

"They came to the flat and Lestrade was really skittish, not wanting to let D.I. Dimmock touch anything... but that's when some officers from the InterPol came..." John stopped listening to Mrs. Hudson at this point, and spun around in his kitchen. Irene was nowhere to be see, in fact, there on the table still sat the teacup John had set out for her with the bag of Earl Grey still floating in the steaming liquid.

Didn't I see her take a drink of that? Thought John.

"Irene?" John called out, there was no answer as Gladstone trotted into the room as happy as ever.  
"Not you, Gladstone. Irene?!" John shouted. Still no answer.  
Looking down at Gladstone, John shook his reeling head. "I dunno what's going on. Where's she gone?" and in that moment John began to doubt that Irene had ever indeed been there. All of the facts were pointing otherwise.

Then John remembered the texts. They would be able to prove that he still had his head on straight.

Then, when John made it to the entryway and where Sherlock's phone was... It was gone. Now replaced by a note,  
written in swoopy, feminine handwriting,  
addressed to Jawn Hamish Watson.  
Signed- Jim xoxo


End file.
